


Wino Forever

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Making Out, Muteness, Pining, Sad Sam, Team Free Will, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 06:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: A part of theBuy the Ticket, Take the Rideuniverse - takes place during Chapter 2 ofStamp Me with Your Signature.





	1. Winona, Minnesota

All at the same time, Sam is turning around to wrestle the power cord into his duffle and he's trying to estimate how far he'll get between Kansas City and Winona, Minnesota on what he's got left in the tank and Dean's still rattling off from a coroner's report. "I mean the bite marks look right and this dude is moving fast. He's probably one of those under-the-radar guys who survived on backstock blood supplies and just tasted fresh one day and lost it. I say we slam him before the good stuff gets him running faster-"

"Can you- can you just hold on, I-" he's, like, twisting and he's got the last of the cord... but one... hand still looking for his other jacket sleeve after pulling the door closed and... the other still on the phone and it hits him-

Yes. He'll probably need the keys to the goddamn car he's driving if he wants to, you know, _drive it_ and so he whips around instead and knocks on the door-

For Chuck, who was still right there at the entrance.

Dean's still talking and. Holy shit. "Shut up!" he barks and it wasn't-quite-at the phone so he presses it to his chest. "Sorry. Not you. Did you see my-"

Chuck reaches, snatches, holds his keys up. Drops them in Sam's open hand.

There's this.

Goddamnit. There's this slight little smile that hadn't been there before. When he was all-business and helping with Sam's tie and it's like.

It's like Chuck knows. Like Chuck knows that if he weren't hanging around him, Sam would be like fifty times more lost and disorganized than he has been lately. Like he sees. Like he sees without making Sam _say it_. Like he knows and like maybe he's letting him ease into it.

Like. Like Sam doesn't know what-- like maybe this has a chance of being something. Maybe the next time he's with Chuck he'll grab his hand before he goes and say he's got a bag. He could, you know? He could come with. Just so Sam doesn't have to make the drive to the case alone. So maybe his room won't be so empty at the motel. So maybe the distance he's giving Dean and Cas can fill with something else.

"And where the FUCK is the lamb's blood??" Dean's voice vibrates against him, through the phone speaker.

Chuck doesn't lose that look. "Text me when you get there."

Right. Yeah. Please. He'll text. He'll call. He wants to. He kind of.

He wonders what the difference would be if he stayed just thirty more minutes. Like, what's the rush?

But thirty minutes of what?

Thirty minutes like. Maybe. Maybe the amount of time he could have his mouth pressed to Chuck's neck if he stepped forward and thanked him.

Right now.

Thanked him for being here. For always letting him in when he shows up at his apartment(s) unannounced. For caring. For taking an interest. For the first time he texted back. For not letting him leave without the right tie. For.

Keys. And. You know. Things.

If he. Stepped forward and.

Yeah. Right. Pressed a completely unsolicited kiss to his mouth. That would sure go over well.

But Chuck's just. Like. _Looking at him_. Like maybe it wouldn't be completely unwelcome.

Like maybe. This time.

Or okay. Maybe there's a something in Minnesota that's drained a dozen people in two days.

So maybe next time.

But a text when he gets there. "Yeah." Okay. Leaving the doorway now. Going down to the car because he's got everything he needs. Everything he _requires_ and it's time to go. Time for his feet to maybe move. "Bye."

Chuck's smile twitches up just a little. Because Sam doesn't turn to leave for another long breath.

If he's not completely off? If he's not reading this totally wrong? If he's not _hoping_ too much.

Chuck is maybe a little bit into him.

He's breathing harder than he should be, slams the car door, shutting himself in and finally brings Dean's chattering back up to his ear.

"I'm here," he says.

"Good fucking god, man, what the fuck is so important about that fuzzy little dingbat, anyway? Every time I turn around you disappear to Chuck's house."

Sam rolls his eyes and throws his bag to the side and yanks his jacket off instead of finding the other sleeve. Starts the car.

"So they're not hiding it? The teeth marks or anything?"

"You weren't even listening to me, that's great," Dean deadpans. "How about you gather your brain cells and just get up here. I'm missing some of the shit in this TRUNK goddamnit," Sam hears something slam. "And, listen, I don't know if you're even paying attention half the time, Sam, but we're still doing a _job_ here and. Look. I'm glad the guy's alive and all that, but how is he fucking useful? What are you even doing that-"

He's gonna hang up on him. "Dean, do you just wanna tell me about the case when I get there? I'm kinda driving right now and I can only steer one hulking, rusted wreck at a time, so you're gonna have to navigate your own goddamn problems."

"Ha. Real nice. Fine." Dean's the one who hangs up on him.

«»

He's about to turn the key after getting gas when the phone rings again. Sam's had to stop a couple times, but he made it more than half-way.

"Are you actually headed here?" Dean asks when he picks up.

"What? Yeah. Why?"

"Cas pulled up the GPS on your phone. You disabled it."

"What the fuck. Why are you trying to track me?"

"Just wondering," Dean mutters. "Just wondering man. How far out are you?"

Wait a minute. "I said I was coming. I said I was driving. I said I was on my way. I've been up front with EVERYTHING with you recently. You wanna tell me where this is coming from?" he challenges.

"Aw, gee, well, I donno. Suddenly seems to me like you're crushing on a dude and maybe I'm suspicious because _it's you_."

Sam flexes his jaw and clears his throat. "Here's something you refuse to acknowledge: I have, in the past, on occasion, crushed on people of differing genders. That's not news, Dean, that's just something you've decided not to deal with."

"So this is a crush," Dean mocks.

Sam won't pretend this is a fucking joke at all. It's the exact opposite. He won't put up with this from his brother. "Actually? It's a fucking relationship. A healthy one. Like people try to have sometimes. And I'm trying to have one. With Chuck Shurley. Yes, it happens. Any other questions?"

Dean snorts. "Just get your ass up here. We'll deal wit-"

"We're not 'dealing' with anything. This is my personal life. This is a thing that's happening whether or not you choose to see it. Yes, Dean. Yes. I like him. I think he likes me. So be happy for me and let me do this or shut the fuck up and deal with the fact that it's happening _silently_ because I didn't ask for your opinion on the matter, got it?"

Dean is quiet on the other end. "I was going to _say_ that we'll deal with this _case_ when you get your slow ass _up here_ ," he says.

"Right. Fine. So stop calling and let me drive."

Dean hangs up again.

«»

When he gets to Winona, it's because Dean makes a show of 'catching' him texting Chuck that he doesn't get around to texting more than just the one time.

Dean rolls through all the dramatics: disappointment, disbelief, eye-rolling, condescension.

"Can you fucking believe this?" he says to Cas, tossing Sam's phone back at him.

Cas shrugs. "Doesn't exactly come as a surprise to me. But Sam did confide in me that he was interested in spending time with Chuck."

Dean rolls his head, cracking his neck. "So you got Cas helping you make time with him?" he turns back to Castiel. "You don't think Chuck's a little fucking _creepy?_ Dude weirds me out."

"Alright. You know what? Fuck you," Sam finally closes his laptop, yanks the cord and wraps it up around his wrist to head back next door.

"You gonna abandon us on the hunt? Gonna go run back down to him? Disappear again?" More gleeful mocking. His fucking smartass face. Like he's talking to a child. Like they’re on the fucking playground and Dean keeps yanking the ball away.

"NOBODY'S FUCKING DISAPPEARING, DEAN," he rounds on him. "I've told you where I was going every single fucking time!!"

"So now I'm just supposed to accept that you're screwing the weird fortuneteller dude?! Is that really what this has come to?! I'm just finding it frankly un-goddamn-believable, Sam. It really, seriously makes no sense."

"We're not- I haven't-- why would you think that I'm under any obligation to make it _make sense to you??_ " He rubs at his eye and finishes gathering his stuff up. "Dean, I don't give a fuck. Have this little shitfit. I thought we were here to work a case."

"I'll gladly work a case around your little-"

Cas finally steps in. Directly in front of Dean, in fact. Puts his hands up. "I actually think you're being unreasonable right now. I don't see where this has affected any of the hunts so far."

Dean throws his hands up, too and spins, turns to the other bed and flops down. Pulls his cell phone out.

Sam goes to work the case in his own room. Leaves both their doors open as he goes.

So it took him a little longer to get north than it did them because he was at Chuck's place. That's what this is about. Dean thinks that disrupted the hunt before it even began.

Underneath it all, this is Dean being scared. He doesn't want Sam to run off and hide. He doesn't want his brother seeking a life where he doesn't fit in. Which is more fucking absurd under these circumstances than it would be otherwise.

Chuck at least _knows him_. Knows all three of them. He knows where Dean fits in the picture exactly. Knows about these fears and how important Sam is to him.

He almost calls Chuck.

He shakes his hair out of his eyes.

He really wants to call.

He wants to be like, _can you believe this guy?_ and he. He just wants someone to talk to. Chuck is becoming his _someone_ and.

It's just that he keeps replaying things over and over. And pushing new meaning into them. Chuck's indulgent, barely-there smile. The way he looked at Sam and. Yeah.

Sam closes his eyes and puts his phone down by his laptop. He's waiting for search results from the DMV that will seemingly never come. He closes his eyes to the blue glow of the screen and he sees Chuck's hands. Watches them until they disappear under his chin and brush his neck, aligning the tie.

God, he wants to call. He wants to call and talk about absolutely anything for thirty sixty eighty a hundred minutes.

Then he wants to close the door and lose his patience and after one of Chuck's breathy laughs, he wants to say, _I think you're finally here with me. I'm dying to ask you. I'm looking for your phone number in casefile IDs and counting the miles between your apartment and every town I go to and I'm leaving anonymous comments on your articles and I think maybe I should have stepped forward and kissed you. I think I should know by now whether or not you're okay with this. But I think you are. And I wanna come home to you._

That sounds way-way overly intense. That's not something he can say.

He can't call. It will cause problems with Dean and every delay on the case is another life lost.

He can't call. There's no reason to call. No real updates on the case and nothing to really talk about. Though he calls when he has nothing to talk about all the time, anyway.

He can't call. He shouldn't be calling. He should have left Chuck alone in the first place.

He can't call. He wants to put his hands to Chuck's head and pull him close and turn his face up to kiss him. He can't call. He wants to ask Chuck if he's interested in broken old hunters he knows too much about. He can't call. He wants to follow Chuck around the rooms of his little apartment until he's just expected there. He can't call. He might slip up and call this _love_ when Chuck isn't ready for it.

He can't call because he's already said it to himself, out loud, and he thinks about Chuck when he wants someone to touch him and when he's drifting off to sleep and his heart flutters when he hears the text tone and he is in so-so-so much fucking trouble.

He should have left this alone. He should have left Chuck to rebuild his life.

He's so deep he hasn't even thought, seriously, about disposing of his current phone numbers in... god, it's been two months, now.

Sam has built expectation on top of this when he knows he shouldn't have and every time he tells himself he should think about stopping, instead his brain comes back with, _but what if, this time, he's the one?_

More than that: What if Chuck thinks _Sam_ is the one just as much as Sam has come to _believe it?_

So Sam opens his eyes to the computer screen and he knows, in that very moment, that next time he's going to ask.

Before he dreams further, before he hopes even more, he's going to ask. And just _thinking_ about whether he's going to ask by kissing him or ask with words or maybe even actions - maybe telling Dean to call Charlie for back-up for once because he wants to stay. Just thinking about the way he wants to do this makes it.

Worse.

It gives him _more hope_ and it feels fucking _wonderful_.

Now he can't call because he'll ask.

Now he can't even text.

He stares at his phone and thumbs a fingerprint off the screen and when Cas comes in, he puts it down and goes back to his computer.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you. There was," Cas shakes his head. "It almost sounded like distress. But. It wasn't."

"What?" Sam looks around. "From me?"

"Yes. Um. Sorry. It was just. Loud," Cas shrugs and turns to go back to the other room. Then pauses.

Comes to Sam's side, at the kitchenette table.

"Dean thinks that you'll stop hunting. If you start seeing someone. And he thinks he's not ready for that. He thinks that-"

"You know, I'm already to the point that I don't care." Sam nods and looks up at him. "This is too important. I don't care if Dean can't feel comfy-cozy about it. It's happening and-- no. I don't have to shove it in his face. But I think it's happening. I feel it in my guts. And it's. Dean doesn't have to like this. He can ignore it. He's free to do that."

Castiel nods. Doesn't dispute it.

Cas is Sam's friend. Cas knows more than he's supposed to, too. Kind of like Chuck.

\---- Which is coming to be a relief. Like how, after the attack, after he's blindsided, when he wakes up and Dean's done all he could and Cas can't heal him any further, the first time Dean slips from the room to take a call from the Deputy, Cas asks, "Would you like me tell Chuck for you?"

Sam can't speak and his neck hurts too much to shake his head, so he thinks at him, _No_.

"Shouldn't we ask him to come assist you?"

Sam's mind reels. Assist him with what? How could he help? What could he do? This is blood-and-guts-and-hunting. He doesn't want to expose Chuck to this. He--

Wants him here. _So bad_.

Even then, Cas waits for him to agree. He waits to be told.

Because Cas is a really great friend.

He plugs in Sam's phone before he leaves the room.

Still, Sam doesn't text.


	2. St. Louis & Lebanon

He knows that Chuck probably didn't want to come up to Minnesota and be this close to the hunt. But it means that Cas doesn't have to hang back and tend to Sam every time he winces. Cas can go with Dean and his brother won't be hunting alone.

One minute he's grumpily dozing and then- there's a knock.

And Chuck appears. And Sam kinda just wants to slump into him and be held.

The next time he saw him, Sam genuinely wanted to say something. He wanted to tug Chuck in that direction with him. See if the water was warm and if Chuck wouldn't mind wading in with him.

But it's different now that Sam can't talk. He can't write it down and ask; he doesn't have that kind of courage.

It's kinda perfect that Chuck takes him to get something his throat can handle.

It's kind of like a date.

But. You know. Not.  
He can't talk, can't engage in what Chuck's telling him. He can smile but he can't even laugh too hard, he's in so much pain.

And, honestly, the second attack is a lot more disorienting because the last thing Sam actually remembers after blinking awake is the dark parking lot outside the froyo shop, an awareness creeping up his spine. Dropping his hand to Chuck's back because he felt like the dark was so complete it might consume him. Might steal Chuck away from him.

Now Chuck is holding his hand, reaching for him, covered in blood and trying to get Sam not to move or whatever--

Chuck _saved_ him. Chuck saved them from a vampire. He endured it alone.

And when Sam grasps that, he's grateful, yes, but more than anything?

He's thrilled. He's humbled and happy and he couldn't wish for much more other than for Chuck not to have fought a vamp in the first place.

The corpse is messy and Chuck is messy and Chuck is falling to _pieces_ , but, to save Sam - to save them both - Chuck did his best and here they are, able to be frazzled and amazed on the side of the road, together.

Sam clamps him tight.

Holds and sways him until the fear falls away and Chuck's body understands as well as he does that the danger has passed and he's safe.

Hugs him until he understands that he did the hard part and now Sam will hold him close. Everybody's okay

Sam's a little bit pissed that he put Chuck in danger. A little more pissed that he can't tell him he's okay and say all the right things.

And, on top of being useless during the fight, without his voice, he can't ask. He just can't. He wants to, now, more desperately than before. But if he couldn't so much as consent for himself in this state, he sure as hell can't ask Chuck if it would be okay to hold him all night or.

Or kiss him before he falls asleep.

He's quiet, passing around the motel room, now. Putting things away and switching off the lights. He tugs the sheets down on the end of the bed so both their feet will be covered when he climbs in. They've shared Chuck's bed before, but Sam doesn't really get in after him. He's bigger and he needs to make sure he doesn't jostle Chuck climbing into the weak, old, springy thing.

Sam gets most the lights and then comes to Chuck's side. He expects him to be soundly asleep by now, but he still seems to be drifting.

Chuck reaches and lightly touches Sam's neck before he's finally out, the day too long and exhausting. Sam smiles and touches him back and wonders at it.

That Chuck should have reached out for him earlier. That he keeps doing that, progressively, in small ways, and here he just reached out without reservation and put a warm hand to his sore skin. It makes him trust it. It makes Sam reach out again and touch him back, thumb at the side of his face a little, gentle and just... smitten. Chasing him off to unconsciousness at last.

Sam climbs into their bed (and he likes that - _their_ bed). Maybe Chuck will take him home with him, tomorrow, to heal. Maybe they'll keep sharing this.

He probably should have reached over Chuck to turn the lamp off. Any little excuse to settle closer. He probably could have waited, climbed in first and Chuck would have touched him when they were both lying down. Chuck's touch was small but his hand was soothing and Sam wouldn't touch back now unless he was awake. He wants to. But it's not something he has permission to do. (Yet.)

He lies down looking at Chuck's back. Steady rise-and-fall. Even breaths.

In the quiet, in the dark, Sam practices again. It's completely soundless this time. He wants to feel the words. Wants to say them against Chuck's palm until he picks up on their meaning. _I wanna stay. I fell in love with you. I love you. Let me stay here._

'Here' being around him, next to him. Within earshot of Chuck - within his influence. He wants permission to come back and not have to leave. He wants to be told he can stay without having the 'moving in' discussion. Because he wanders, still, and he doesn't know how good he'd be at it - never has known. There have been people who made him want to try and a few he did try with. And here he is still floating. Thinking maybe the moving-in is the final attempt at gluing himself into place with somebody - or the final nail in the coffin. The last thing he should really be asking for. The last gasp of a desperate man.

It would be so fundamentally different with Chuck. They both know the dynamics here and it wouldn't be 'moving in' unless it meant hooking each other this way and that. Both leaving the same place and coming home to it all the time. Not... well, not _all_ the time. But. It could still mean 'coming home'. Still be 'living with' without abandoning Dean and making him think he has to fight all the ends of the world on his own. He could drag Chuck with sometimes, when it's safe enough. And, for the rest, he could count down the miles and the days and know he's got a place to land.

So, in the quiet, he practices that. _Will you come with me? Can I come home to you?_ Eventually the word "you" grates out of his throat low and painful and he winces, breath hitching with the shock of it.

Chuck snores lightly.

He wants to reach out. He wants Chuck not to be alone anymore. Maybe that's how Chuck works, how he's comfortable, in the alone and in the quiet, but maybe he won't want to stay lonely. Maybe he can come to like Sam around enough to-

Anything. Just anything.

Sam's been through some head trauma today. The room has had a bit of a tilt to it off and on. He should sleep.

The room is chill with the a/c still running low to keep the stale air moving around. He decides Chuck would simply benefit from Sam staying a little closer and sharing heat.

The air shouldn't even be on. The night is cold out there, for normal people, at least.

Sam pulls the comforter up.

He can't stop staring.

Finally, he puts two fingers to Chuck's neck and feels his pulse. Backs off as soon as he's measured the resting pace of it. He breathes to it and seeks to match. Tugs the sheets to rest properly on his shoulder.

They're gonna be at Chuck's place. He's gonna go with. Sam's gonna get his neck better. The first words out of his battered throat are gonna be, _Can I kiss you?_

«»

The anger doesn't come for a while.

First it's desperation.

Sam texts Chuck and calls, though he has no voice, and he grabs at Cas's elbow begging for help but Cas doesn't know how to help except to try to keep him from hurting himself.

Sam paces outside of the diner trying to figure out what to text or if he should give Chuck space or if he was being fucking foolish and he should just never try to contact him again.

Ten minutes. They were ten minutes from being gone. Ten minutes from leaving Dean and his big fucking mouth here in Winona and back heading to Chuck's house.

He didn't wanna talk about the Becky thing until it came up again and when would it? That's his fault. But did Dean have to fucking-- when he was _voiceless_ and unable to--

Try as he might Cas isn't prepared for the way Sam darts away from him and slams Dean into the side of the building when he comes out, jarring his head against brick and making him shout, "Hey!!"

He tries to grate out the words until it hurts, searing his throat. _You have to get him back here, you fucking dick, you have to explain!!_

But there's only him _trying_ to shout and Dean _actually_ shouting and Cas agreeing that this is fucked up and prying them off each other.

A waitress comes out, sipping her coffee, unimpressed. "Move it to somebody else's parking lot, boys."

Sam finally pulls away from them both and spins back, clutching his hair, can't find the words to express how truly fucked he is, regardless of whether he has a voice or not.

He's fucking fucked. This all meant nothing. Chuck put his well-being in Sam's hands and trusted him to keep him sober and Sam returned that trust with a sick fucking lie.

He's breathing too fast for the good of his throat. It's sawing against his raw insides, and Cas has to haul him over and toss him in the passenger seat. Holds a glowing hand at his neck and Sam can feel the hot light fighting the spell soaked into his flesh. It's still not working much but it's a cool slide of numbness against the solid block of aching.

This is hopeless.

Sam wants him back so bad. He wants ten- FIVE fucking minutes to write it down. To get him to understand. He just wants Chuck back. He needs to apologize. He needs to tell him the whole entire truth.

He grabs Cas's coat and thinks a big, fat thought at him: _I need him back. Please get him back._

Cas nods. Calls Dean over.

Dean wanders to Cas's side, reluctant. And out of arm's reach.

Cas passes his cell over. "I have Chuck's number. Call and explain it to him."

"Listen," Dean scoffs, "it's probably for the bes-"

Cas pushes his phone into Dean's chest. "You did this. You told Sam's story without his permission and you _didn't_ do it to help him, so don't start saying it's for the best. You did it to _insult_ him." Cas tosses a hand at Sam as if to present him. Crumpled in the passenger seat and flexing his jaw in pain and already bruised all to hell, feeling his smoothie rise in his guts and the crushing weight of another disappointment just because he's a lying piece of filth who needs to be reminded that he doesn't actually deserve the love he thought he might have had a shot at.

Oh holy fuck.  
He gives up.

Gets his legs in the car and shuts the door and texts Chuck one more time. Irrational and angry still. But the worlds are true. **I am such a fucking sorry sack of shit.** Nothing but the truth.

It feels worse after the text is sent.

He should be most angry with himself.  
He could have copped to this during any of the hundreds of hours they'd spent talking nonsense.

He couldn't even try to go into a relationship with a clean slate. He's lied to everyone he loves. He started the trend with Chuck all over again, without even considering what he was doing.

Just thinking about himself. Not about all the baggage he comes with that he'd be saddling on Chuck.

He clamps his jaw tight. Berates himself in silence.

By the time Dean and Cas are done hissing at each other in the parking lot, he's moved on.

To.  
Well. Resignation.

He's never gonna see him again. He's never gonna see Chuck again.

He should have said something. Anything. Everything.

He could have followed him if he wasn't feeling totally caught out.

Could have dropped to his knees at any other point and told Chuck that he knew he'd end up disappointing him but he's _desperate_ to have just one good day on occasion.

Desperate to hold somebody and make them proud to be with him. Desperate for simple things and shared beds and someone to listen. Desperate for some change to this never-ending grind.

He made Chuck listen. Was greedy for the ways Chuck set things to rights in his mental landscape. He was so tolerant and he gave Sam words that made him feel better. Not feel so dysfunctional and alone.

And all he can think of is that he answered that help and Chuck's understanding with omission. A lie. He didn't _give_ what he was getting.

Chuck could have had a quiet life with no vampires ever. He came to help Sam because Sam helped him detox. He got scented out and screwed over and lied to.

Sam closes his eyes, face pressed against the door.

Chuck's not gonna speak to him. He's gonna cut his losses.

What really fucking stings is that this hurt Chuck in a similar way - this hurt Chuck because there _was_ something there. Sam hadn't just been imagining it.

If Chuck only liked him as a friend - nothing more - he would have laughed at Sam with Dean.

It wasn't funny to him. It was hurtful.  
Sam hurt Chuck.

He literally doesn't deserve anyone, ever.

«»

Sam closes the door when they get back. He must sleep some. He drifts awake at different times of day until someone knocks.

He doesn't care to answer, but Cas texts **Please answer your door** with a pensive little emoji that's totally him, all sad and worried. So he gets up, unlocks everything.

"I wanted to let you know that Dean got in contact with Chuck."

Sam stands stock still and waits.

"He apologized. He explained everything. Chuck understands. He only wanted to know if you were alright."

Oh fuck.

"He was angry with Dean for doing this while you needed our help. Sam? He's not angry with you. He was sickened by Becky's actions. You're alright," he adds as Sam stumbles backwards to sit. "Chuck understands."

That's so much more mercy than he deserves.

Fuck.

He should just thank Chuck by text and leave him alone and not bug him for like a month and refrain from making a nuisance of himself ever again.

Sam can leave him alone at this point and let it go. They can just... separate on good terms.

Sam can let him go.

He finally reaches to flip his phone back over.

There's a text.

**I heard everything from dean. Sorry I didn't hear you out. Cas said you'll be here tomorrow.**

He only blinks at it.

"We can leave whenever you're ready to. Sam. We thought we could bring you down to Chuck's apartment? Like you had planned?"

He nods, numb.

"Did you want to sleep first?"

He nods.

He knows Cas goes away quietly after touching his shoulder.

He doesn't remember locking the door back up.

He has a text written in reply. He doesn't send it for a long-long time.

He remembers Chuck stumbling out of the booth to get away from him in the diner. Horrified. Humiliated. Lied to.

Sam is pretty sure he broke his heart before he even had it in hand.

Sam turns the phone back over.

He'll go tomorrow. And he'll release Chuck from this. Say his real apologies to his face (in a manner of speaking) and leave him be. They can start over as friends and just speak sometimes and maybe that way he won't break Chuck's heart for good. He was bound to do that someday, anyway. He can leave him in a better place than he found him and have that be good enough.

Sam takes the phone back up and sends the text. _Thank you. I'm so sorry._

He gets hit back automatically and he doesn't check what it says.

Dean comes to wake him up in the morning.

«»

He drinks warm tea on the car ride. Simply rests in the back seat at Castiel's instruction and stares at the world.

He avoids his phone. Breathes deep. Seeks peace with this.

It wasn't meant to be. Like, who was he kidding in the first place? Chuck never wanted to be a part of this. To restore him to what his life was before the prophecy kicked his ass should be good enough. Sam should have left him behind. They've done it so often, for so many people. Left them alone to live. It's when they get tangled up again that they die. Like Sara. Goddamnit. Like Sara.

Sam saw this absolutely unquestioning understanding in Chuck's eyes. Being figured-out beforehand was an easy gift. It was such a luxury. It was too good for the likes of him.

No one can know that much about someone and still think them--

It doesn't make any sense. The real truth of it has to be that Sam conned Chuck into trusting him.

He got married to Chuck's ex. In what fucking universe is that understandable, especially considering who they are? It's fucked up under the most banal of circumstances, but you throw in spells and being saved by fucking Crowley? And it's just--

You know, Sam's had his control over his own life taken away so much, he's starting to think that was his true destiny. Maybe he was made to have his decisions taken out of his own hands because he makes crappy fucking decisions.

He lets Dean drop him off. Mentally throws a message at Cas that he'll find his own way back.

Cas actually gets out of the car and stops him while he shoulders his bags.

"Sam, he understands. He does."

Sam nods.

Cas just stares at him, concerned. He must have heard something of the way Sam was berating himself. But Sam has no intention of letting himself off the hook for this. He gets the little-brother treatment enough.

Cas lets him be.

Later, Sam will excuse himself for the day, part from Chuck with his guts in his throat and a fake little smile on his face. Walk up to find a good car to jack in the grocery store parking lot.

Later, he will drive it into Missouri and just hang out for two weeks, until he can finally be understood when he picks up the phone to Dean's increasingly worried calls.

Later he will finally look at the text Chuck sent yesterday.

**None of this is your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for. I know you can't do much but press buttons in response but do u want me to call? :)**

«»

Dean's in the garage tinkering when Sam gets back. He stands and he brushes himself off.

Sam parks the clunker-of-the-week and picks up his bags and Dean comes close so he brushes past him.

"Hey, alright." Dean catches up and gets his elbow.

He stops. Flexes his jaw. Turns.

Dean doesn't care if he's still pissed. He grabs Sam by the chin, turns him this way and that, checking the damage on his neck. "Looks better," he nods.

Sam jerks away and goes into the bunker.

He's got groceries to buy and a potential case he wants to check up on. He keeps busy in the first few hours without running into Dean again, or Cas.

It's evening before he gets to all the laundry.

Sam reaches the bottom of the bag, not sure what could be left until his fingers hit it.

He doesn't pull it out. He goes to shut the laundry room door and he comes back to the machine and hauls the bag up.

Pulls the scarf out.

Sam had grabbed Chuck's hands. Wiped the vamp gore from him and tried to calm him.

It didn't work. So Sam pulled him out of the car.

Sam held him.

There was a time, not at all long ago, when he felt like he could just close a chapter on himself and go for a hunt. Look for a friendly face in a library or a diner. It never worked out like it did for Dean, just burying himself in tits 'n ass until it was all a blur.

Sam would hook up with someone and it would be a workout and it would be consuming kisses and he would breathe fresh air in the morning. Start a new chapter. A new volume. A new book within himself.

This came. So _very_ fucking close.

This came too close for him to let go of that easily.

He thinks of new volumes, fresh starts, a changed POV, new words. And he thinks of the seeds Chuck planted within him. Growing the trees that would be the paper and the words he can't bleach off the page.

Sam throws the scarf in the washing machine.

Because he's being over-dramatic.

And this has happened before. And he can let go.

Change is more than inevitable in his life. It is necessary on a daily basis.

It's just.

This was-- Chuck was kind of the change he _wanted_. He picked his change for once instead of having it thrust upon him. (And he thought he was being chosen, too.)

It could have happened and it could have _made sense_ because of how much Chuck knows and how much Sam knows of him and how much they've been willing to share recently.

He doesn't feel like a new chapter. He feels like a half-assed grouping of unfinished sentences. He wasn't prepared for this. Chuck-- he wasn't done absorbing him. He didn't learn all he could. Didn't get to work it out to the end.

It feels ripped apart and stolen. Pages yanked out.

The scarf won't clean properly. He knows he'll be throwing it out. There's no harm in leaving it in with the wash, though.

Dean's so fed up by the next day that he plops himself down beside Sam at the kitchen table, gets up, follows him to the library when he immediately escapes.

"You gonna stay pissed at me?"

"Pretty much. Being pissed at you feels better than my throat right now," he whispers as loud as he can.

Dean taps his boot on the chair. "I said I was sorry. I'll say it again: I'm sorry. Cas was right. I told a story that wasn't mine to tell."

"Are you sorry that you did it on purpose? To get that exact result?"

Dean taps his boot again and the pause is a second too long for him to forgive Dean for another two weeks.

He doesn't communicate with him through Cas, he just doesn't sit down at dinner and socialize with him. He wears headphones in the car, at the motel, back at the bunker again. He catches up on podcasts and drowns his brother out whenever he's not required to speak to him.

Correction: he catches up on half his podcasts. Doesn't quite hear the other half when he's too busy thinking. Stewing.

Trying to focus on things that aren't the time. Like where he would be at this time tomorrow if he left the bunker for Kansas City. Like what Chuck would normally be doing at this time of day. Like how far into the healing process he would have given up and written some sort of manifesto out and slid it across Chuck's kitchen table and watched him read it. Watched him get to the end and say, 'Sure, okay, we can try.'

«»

Sam hovers over the trash can in the kitchen for a long fucking time before he throws the scarf away.

He stays there leaning against the counter and listening to nothing. Staring at nothing. Trying to find some working part within him cranking on despite the fact that his fucking brain can't seem to get over this hill.

In all honesty: why is it so hard?

What about Chuck was different than Amelia? What about him is a fish hook the likes of which he hasn't ever felt?

Chuck is actually free, for one, unlike Amelia.  
Chuck is actually alive and aware, for two, unlike Jess.

He can't say it makes sense but that doesn't lessen the impact, somehow.

The fact that he _is_ alive and accessible is maybe what's driving Sam nuts.

Compounded by the fact that Chuck knew him to his bones. Felt comfortable around him.

Expressed, time and again, that he trusted Sam.

There's the rub.

He failed in that. Took and took, was greedy for what fit and the trust didn't quite puzzle together properly but he wanted it anyway. Was willing to pretend it did fit.

Truth found him out.

Dean drifts into his vision.

For once he doesn't say anything. He leans against the far wall, across the kitchen from Sam, for quite some time.

"I know I'm the last person you wanna hear from lately. But if you wanna talk about it." Dean shrugs.

Sam gives himself a minute to think. To change his mind. But no.

"Can we talk about how I said I liked someone and you blew my shot at it? Like the person I'd been confiding in and visiting and who I'd made friends with was just some broad at a bar you wanted me to strike out with?"

Dean crosses his arms and just stands there.

"No? Can we talk about how you got to take my words out of my mouth when I didn't even have words to begin with?" Sam raises his eyebrows. "No again? Okay. Can we talk about how I live with the fucker who yanked me out of hell without my soul-"

Dean visibly bristles.

"- _and_ the guy who stuffed an angel into me when it was the last thing I ever would have wanted, but for some reason, you still get to take my decisions and my stories and _my life_ out of my own hands. And I'm just supposed to come home and sit in your car and make jokes with you and live," he clenches his hands in front of himself, "with being half-empty every day?? I'm supposed to be okay with having all my-- I'm supposed to suck it up and make nice when Kevin fucking asks me to be bros with you again and I'm supposed to look at you when I'm injured and I can't speak and _trust you_ , as my _fucking brother_ to help me get around until I'm healed??"

Dean doesn't talk.

"I said-- I said, 'yeah, Dean, I like this person.' And your reaction to that person dropping his life and helping me the fuck out and saving me from _a vampire_ was, 'Let me tell you one thing that will freak you out the absolute most about Sam. Sam is a fucking joke. Let me tell you why.'"

"I didn't _say_ that," Dean finally objects.

"You didn't have to speak it to say it. Kind of like how I didn't have to speak the story about Becky to tell Chuck. Amazing how that works, isn't it? How words mean more than one thing," he mocks marvel and he's more bitter about that than anything because he was learning so much about words. Texts and phone calls and late-night coffee talk that was making him feel whole and human. Words doing double-duty in his life and the very second that words were taken away from him, Dean used them to _gut_ him.

Dean rolls the heel of his boot on the floor. He says, "I'm sorry. I am. I'm sorry. And I fucked it up. I guess I fucked it up with someone who meant a lot to you. And it meant more than I gave it credit for. And I did. I did take that from you. And I'm sorry." He waits. But Sam says nothing. "I think. I think if you're okay with it? I think. I should call him. Or meet him. And say that-"

"I already said that and I damn well don't need you to use my words for me, Dean," Sam hisses. "I guess." He laughs, hollow. "Guess I should be thanking you. That I get to spare someone from myself. Guess I should thank you for inspiring me to just leave it alone. And let him go without me." God. Let go. Yeah.

God, this is really painful. This. This shouldn't have been so painful. He was real lucky to get to exchange texts with someone. Lucky to have a friend.

There's a pretty good chance this is just what he gets for touching Chuck's face before he fell asleep. For practicing words he thought he'd ever have a chance to deliver.

Flew too high. Should have stayed closer to the ground he came from.

"I don't need you to promise me you won't do it again. Because you will. I don't know if I was gonna change my life. I don't know what would do that. Maybe I'm just here until it ends. You are." He stops and he breathes. "You are my brother. And I do love you. And I do forgive you. And maybe the fact that I get angrier with you every time and find it harder to fucking let go of what you've done? Maybe that should clue you in to what you're doing. What you're doing, _handling_ my life. Okay?"

He waits. Waits until Dean says, "Okay."

And he leaves for his room because he can't fucking stand this anymore.

«»

It is Chuck who eventually gathers the guts to call.

Though he needed liquid courage to do it.

Sam hates himself more than he did when he deleted their eight-month texting thread while wallowing in a motel, alone, outside St. Louis.

He hates Dean's guts for shrugging at him like, _what can you do?_

He sits on the floor in his room after packing and unpacking four times.

He sighs but he won't fucking weep for himself.

It's remembering the watery sound of Chuck's voice that does that.

It's.  
Goddamnit.

It's hurting someone he _loves_ that does that.

He packs again.  
Leaves the bags packed.


	3. Kansas City, Kansas

Sam debates with himself for two days.

He is goddamn miserable.

Goes to sleep on the second night and wakes up after two hours.

It sits inside him. A weight in his gut. It's sat there since Dean opened his mouth in the diner, if he gives it proper credit. And now it feels like it's seeping poison. It feels like he's infectious and he spread his filth all over Chuck and he's so-so sorry and sorry just ain't cutting it.

He's the one who got Chuck sober and he wasn't wrong when he thought Chuck was looking in him and seeing things he might come to love.

But it's Sam's fault that he didn't get the whole picture. He's angry with Dean and angrier with himself. So angry that he lets it go and swallows this boulder of regret down on his own. Lets the weight sit in his own belly where it belongs.

He knows Chuck well enough to know that the issue was a secret, a lie, not a marriage to his ex. Not the fact that it happened - the _omission covering it_. Chuck certainly doesn't doubt that Sam was forced into it. It was the fact that Dean spouted it off like a joke. The fact that, in their ramblings and wanderings and intense late-night discussions, Sam somehow never got around to telling it himself.

And that incident is long dead. Chuck let it go.

Sam's the one who didn't forgive himself.

And so he drove himself away.

Separating himself from a good thing is what's been hurting him for weeks. Weakening his system to the poison. Making him feel absolutely worn. Making Chuck's stilted phone call full of fucked-up loss an actual balm to his soul.

So now Sam's self-denial has hurt Chuck and it's not enough for him to be sorry about that. He's devastated and he wants to fix it. Chuck was willing to reach back out and Sam knew that. Sam's silence is now rotting them both out and he wants it to stop. (He wants to go. He wants to _go_. Maybe it would be better if it stopped because Chuck moved on. But _Sam wants to be there_.)

It's almost one in the morning.

Over the last few weeks he's been pulled toward the city. Over the past two days half his mind has already been on the road.

He only slept yesterday because he spent the daylight hours replaying the sound of Chuck's loss and regret in his head. Went to bed early and finally just cried his stomach sour. Tried to convince himself everything is out of his hands. He damaged it and has no right to it. He decided to let Chuck go and purposely looked down the path of his future, deliberately excluding the friendship he's come to treasure.

It hurt so badly.  
(It hurt so bad he wanted to call Chuck and be soothed.)  
It hurt so badly that, because of that phone call, he started to worry what might be happening to Chuck if he came to the same conclusion. He worried how far Chuck might lose himself again. If he's looking at a similarly empty future because he assumes it doesn't matter if he drinks.

If Sam damaged Chuck, that also makes it his responsibility to fix him. He won't die drowning in alcohol. Sam is responsible for changing that back to the state--

Back to what it was before Winchesters existed.

Only then will it be okay for him to back away and leave Chuck to his own life.

It has to have sturdier ground than that to actually make him move, though. Because enough of him knows that he'd just be going to _see him_ that if Sam doesn't have another reason he'll make a seriously injudicious play of some kind. Some reckless move to touch him or... fucking begging or...  
Bottom line is, he needs at least two flimsy reasons to go. One will not suffice.

He'll bring coffee. He'll drop in just to see. Just to see if the drinking lasted more than a day. And if it did, he'll have to stick around and fix it. And if it didn't, he'll tell Chuck he did nothing wrong and he's okay. Because he needs to hear that and he needs to know that one screw-up doesn't mean shit in the whole scheme of things. He's done a good job and he shouldn't throw that away. He'll let Chuck know that and then Sam will bluff some kind of hunt and be on his way. Change his phone numbers and just check in every couple mon--

He laughs at himself because he's an asshole.

Then he gets up and grabs his bags.

He meant to pack for one day, but he packed for six.

He packed pain pills and plans to stop for bottles of water and something to help with nausea. Things for the detox. And coffee. And.

He will not. WILL NOT. Try to stay longer than he's absolutely needed.

After this is done - as soon as he leaves - he will stop counting on this. He'll stop planning to see him. He'll make all of this an afterthought and--

So maybe, instead he shouldn't go at all. Maybe if he can't control himself he--

He doesn't tell Dean he's going. And he doesn't have a car so he has to grab Cas's keys that he so politely leaves on a hook in the garage. Puts a post-it under where they would be that just says, **Call me, I'll be back. Sam.**

He almost turns around four times in the four hour drive (except he doesn't because he doesn't even switch lanes).

«»

It's too early to show up. Too early for anywhere. So he sits at Starbucks with his first coffee and texts Castiel to let him know he's gone and actively avoids responding to the questions Cas fires back.

Sam gets on his laptop and reads the world news and can't concentrate on a damn thing. At 9 it just has to be late enough. He gets another coffee for himself, one for Chuck, and he goes back out to the other side of town. Makes his other purchases at a drugstore and drives the speed limit all the way to the apartment, letting the day age a little more.

He does turn around when he gets there.

He was going to go in with just the coffees but he's only human and - _he's such a complete asshole_ \- and both the pain pills and his toiletries (and his _condoms_ , goddamnit he's such a _bastard_ ) are in the smaller bag. He brings that one with.

His heart is _tripping_. He's breathing fast.

Sam tries to convince himself it's just from taking the six stairs up too quickly.

"Hi," he bursts when the door opens.

Chuck is hollow-eyed but awake. "H-hey?"

Sam clears his throat and holds out one of the coffees.

Chuck takes it and lifts the lid, looks in. Then steps aside and motions.

"Uh, I can't. I can't stay for long," he motions vaguely. "I gotta catch up. We're heading to... Ohio. So." So. So so so transparent. So lame. Such a lie. Why did he just do that again??

"Oh," he blinks, still standing by but seems to collect himself. "So are-"

Sam just steps in and Chuck doesn't stop him and he doesn't stop himself.

So Chuck closes his door and they go to the kitchen to take off their lids and lean and look into their cups as they drink for a long couple minutes.

Chuck nods to him and says... that he looks good.

And he doesn't need the correction to know what he meant but he also-

Standing here. Looking at him. In his home. In his _kitchen_. In his _life_.  
This was a huge, massive, incredibly stupid fucking idea.

He's so in love with this man.  
He's full-stop, gut-in-his-throat, blinking-back-tears in love with this incredible person he could hit the tile and fucking _beg_ to know if he's ever gonna have a shot. Just give it to him in plain language - will Chuck ever let Sam be the one who gets to touch him sometimes? Will he ever think about kissing, maybe? Sex, someday? Coming to the bunker with Sam and letting himself be looked after. He wants the phone calls back, the dumb texting threads. He wants his friend back. He wants the words back, the pointless conversations and the 'Do you know what I learned this week' -- the _words_. And, if it were ever on the table, he'd want to feel Chuck touch his head. He'd want to come home to him at the end of the day. He's gone. He's just _gone_.

There's only one fucking way to handle this. One last-ditch effort.  
He can take himself out of the equation and put a lid on this box and _**never**_ open it again.

He takes a breath that's not deep enough and he offers to go, "I can just go."

Chuck laughs like he's gotta be fucking kidding. "No! No. I don't want you to go. I hate it when you go. It's quiet and I get lonely. I don't care how long it takes for you to come back. Just. Just come back. Jesus, Sam, you're, like. My only friend. You're. The best. And. No. Just. Starting over is bullshit," he tosses out under his breath.

He dumps those words back at Sam's feet because he doesn't want what Sam offered for them: to start over fresh with everything on the table. There's nothing fresh about it. There's just what _is_.

Sam's not fucking kidding anyone. He can't go back to just hanging out. He can't fucking do it. Nothing will take his sight away, take his memories away. Take away the fact that Chuck's been filtering clean his insides. Making sense of his life for him. Spending time with him and seeming to like it.

Now, wanting to keep seeing him even after--

Behind Chuck sits the damage done. In the long, quiet moment after Chuck says pretty much exactly what Sam wanted to hear, he looks over and sees the booze bottles mixed in with the recycling.

Okay.  
Okay.

He wants nothing more than for this to be the last time they are ever, ever apart. Chuck folds into his arms for only the second time and Sam's probably going to do something stupid like kiss his head and press him to the counter and try to taste his mouth. Maybe. Maybe the next time he's actually capable of moving. Once the amazement and shock have worn off.

Or maybe Chuck holds him so sweetly that he wouldn't dare ruin it because he intends to come back here. To these arms. At every available opportunity. Wiry tight and clutching at him and. God. _Resting_. The stress falling out of him like when Sam held him on the side of the road and the adrenaline wore off and his fear and frantic heart and his scrambling hands let Sam take over and block everything out.

He saved Sam and then let Sam protect his head.

He sinks his chin to Chuck's hair and feels fucking dazed, admits to faking the hunt. Presses him to go out for food.

"I have a better idea," Chuck says. And Sam only lets him pull away a little to look up. "I think we could both sleep." He searches Sam for a moment. "Come lay down with me?"

He's so sure.  
Sam is so sure.

It's gonna take a few more steps to get there but Chuck likes him. Wants him around. Values him. This is going where he thinks it's going. Even if it takes another year or whatever.

Chuck wants to share the bed with him.  
Chuck wants him around.  
Chuck trusts him.

Sam doesn't ask, 'Are you sure?'  
He only nods.

Sam presses him forward, keeps a hand low at his back as Chuck leads him to the bedroom. He dumps his bag right next to Chuck and he turns to lean against him one more time.

"You just look really exhausted," Chuck cringes.

Chuck looks rested enough but Sam can't say so because he knows he probably drank himself to passing out.

"I think I am," he moves his hand up and down Chuck's arm and marvels at how he doesn't flinch from it. How he seems to find comfort in it. When he normally can't stand to be touched.

Chuck turns to switch out his shirt for a worn one, softer, and Sam steps on his heels to kick his shoes off. He didn't bring the bag with sleep clothes, so he just takes his overshirt off. And his jeans.

Chuck doesn't make a big deal of stripping to his boxers, too. He takes the side close to the door, like normal. So Sam gets in the other side.

He draws the covers up over them and presses in to lay his head close.

Chuck fusses with the sheets some. "Were you. I mean, can you- would you be willing to-"

"Yes."

"I mean. I don't think the next couple days are gonna be some of my best," shame colors his tone.

"I don't care. I'll- whatever you- I can be here. Nothing else is going on. I mean. Yeah. Yes. And you'll be okay. And you'll tell me if you're not."

Chuck lets out a long breath and closes his eyes. Scoots in a little.

They don't say much else.

Until Sam does. He says, "I'm sorry," like a coward, too low to hear.

"You're gonna have to believe me. That it doesn't matter. Okay?" Chuck whispers.

"Okay. Missed out on some stuff this month," he noses into Chuck's shoulder, meaning that he missed _him_.

"Not really," Chuck whispers back.

Wrong.  
He missed a month out of the rest of his life.

When Chuck's asleep, he presses close as he dares and breathes him in.

Then drops off like a brick into a river.

«»

He had meant what he said at the time, but Sam has to go on this case. Dean's being intense about it, so much so he doesn't ask where Sam disappeared off to (as if he doesn't know), and Cas doesn't have time to really bug him about it, just takes his keys back without complaint.

So no one bothers Sam. He does the job and, in literally every spare moment, he takes his turn bothering someone else.

He feels like shit that he's not there to help Chuck through the tremors. It's not so bad this time but it's still enough of a waking hell that he calls up and breathes on the other end for a few minutes, doesn't say a damn thing, just lets Sam tell him he's gonna be okay. He tells him to take deep breaths until he does. Until they sync up and Sam has to gently but firmly order Chuck to text him because he's gotta join Dean in the car, chase after a suspect.

In the whole twenty minutes, it's just Sam talking and Chuck only says, "yeah" a few times.

He's gotta earn the damn words back.

His texts aren't much more expressive but Sam keeps at him in every spare moment. If he annoys Chuck and makes him answer, he won't have his hands free to get in the car and drive to buy beer.

That's pretty weak as far as preventative measures go, but it's what he's got. Until this is done and he can split off again. Get back to Chuck's house and watch him.

After a few hours of sending messages out to limited response and only fifteen minutes of total reprieve on Sam's part, Chuck finally coordinates his fingers into asking, **If I need u to callll again can u call?.?**

Dean's in the driver's seat, on the phone with Cas, drilling him on their next moves.

Sam dials.

"Yeah I can," he says when Chuck picks up.

"Can I take something?"

"You can take one of those night-time Tylenol and go to sleep, how about that?"

"How about two?"

"How about one and you text me if it doesn't work."

Chuck huffs on the other end. "My face is hot and my fingers are freezing."

"The Tylenol will help with that and the rest will help you sleep through some of this."

An unsteady breath on the line. "Okay."

Sam wants to say it. He opts for something more tame. "I may be working but I'm right here. I can always step out and answer the phone." And he swears to himself he will because what Chuck's going through right now is no joke. Chuck plays it off like it's whining and it's not just whining - it's a replay of that mess he went through to get clean in the first place and Sam watched that whole ordeal. It wasn't pleasant. It wasn't easy. It's not whining - it's purging toxins. It's his body fighting to right itself again when doing more wrong to it would be so much easier.

"No you can't. It's fine. You're busy," Chuck insists.

He glances to Dean who's still rolling his eyes and griping on his own phone.

"I really can. Where are you?"

"C-couch," he shivers. His teeth even clack.

He wouldn't be so cold if Sam could hold him. If he were there invading his space and caring for him like he ought to. "Get up and go to the medicine cabinet. Bottle with the blue label. You have water?"

"Yeah."

"Blue label."

"Just one."

"Yeah."

Sam listens to him take it and sigh. He wants to wait until he's asleep, wants to listen for fifteen minutes until the pill kicks in and make sure it's actually gonna help him drift off, but Dean's wrapping up and they're gonna be on the move in a minute.

"Sleep," he says.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"And if you can't-"

"I'll text you if it doesn't work."

"It will work. But you'll text me in 20 minutes if you're still awake."

"I'll." He sighs again. "I'll let it work. I don't want you to have to answer in the middle of-"

"I can manage."

"You can be careful."

"I might be capable of both, as a matter of fact."

"I'm plugging in my phone. I'm lying down."

"Good. You'll be okay," he says softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. You gotta go?"

"Yeah."

"I'll answer, too. If you call."

"'Kay. Thanks." Sam grows warm because that promise means more to him than he thought it would. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

They hang on to the silence for too long before they exchange "Bye"s and it ends stilted because he's not saying everything. It strikes him that Chuck has things he's not saying, too, but that might be the fever and the shakes talking, at the moment, so he can't bank on it being the "I miss you" and "I wanna be back with you" that's sitting at the bottom of Sam's throat.

Dean's staring when he hangs up.

"We're heading to the downtown office, see if we can shake somebody down in the parking lot before they get to their cars for the evening traffic jam."

"Right. Okay."

"Chuck?" he asks, indicating the phone.

Sam blinks at him. Shrugs.  
Not that it's any of Dean's fucking business.

"Good. Good, see, I thought you were being less of a bummer and I was totally right," he restarts the car.

Sam kind of feels like less of a bummer, he'll give him that.

«»

Chuck must be sleeping. So he sends just one text. **Call when you wake up. I hope you feel better.**

He meant to say, 'no matter when you wake up,' but he geeks it and just lets it go. He doesn't want the phone going off too much and disturbing him.

Sam left the purchases he made as an afterthought. Dumped them off in the medicine cabinet. He hadn't been able to buy more coffee - he didn't find anything really decent, and now he wishes he'd had his head on straight enough for coffee and groceries and snacks and-

Then he realizes he wasn't actually gonna stay. His thoughts and actions were so contrary to each other when he was trying to cut Chuck loose. This wasn't supposed to work out. Maybe just in his wildest dreams.

He digs his thumb into his palm out of habit. Doesn't really need to pinch himself because somebody already punched him in the head today, so he would probably have shaken out of a dream by now.

He's still awake when Chuck texts at four in the morning. **Can I take another one yet?**

The pill he initially took has worn off by now. Sam calls.

"Hey."

"Hey, yeah. You should take another one. Did the first one get you to sleep?"

"Yeah," he grumbles. "I wanna go back to my nice, unconscious state."

"Okay. It'll take a little while to kick in."

Chuck sighs and there's a slosh of water, his breath over the bottle. "'Kay. So how's the hunt? You okay?"

"Fine, good, yeah. Um. Got knocked around a little. Big bruise above my eye," he presses at it and gets up to wander to the bathroom and look at it in the mirror.

"Leave it alone."

"I am."

"You're poking at it."

Sam smiles. "How do you know?"

"I know. I might not be at the top of my game right now, but I know." He's quiet for a moment. "Sorry I'm such a mess."

"No. Don't say that. You're totally fine," he assures him, straightforward and unquestionable.

"I was-"

"I know. And I left you alone like I wasn't in the same state. Like I didn't _care_ or something. I can take a punch but I'm a chickenshit. You shouldn't have to deal with this alone. I offered the first time and that hasn't changed. It's still my job."

"It's. It's really not, but thanks for being here at. What's it? Four where you are?"

"I was up anyway."

"God. Why? Unless you're actually on someone's tail consider this cool thing they call 'sleeping.'"

He snorts. "I'll look it up." He turns toward the bed but it's pretty much just so he can bunch all the covers and wrap around them like he had someone cuddled inside. It's too soft. There's not an angled, bristly little man in them. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Ugh," Chuck busts out, with actual disgust. "Please don't make me do that."

"You need something in your stomach."

"Can't we talk about something else?"

"You at least choked down a coffee, didn't you?" he points out.

"But that was basically medicinal. If I didn't have it, I would have gotten a headache, Sam," he whines.

Sam is grinning when he shouldn't be. He loves to hear him worming away from responsibility because he thinks he knows exactly how to make him fold. He drops his voice and pleads a little. "I just want your body to keep working. Please don't fall apart; please just eat something for me?"

He grumbles, wordless, this time.

"The pill will kick in soon. Just eat something small and then I'll stop bugging you. You can hang up on me and go to sleep."

"So drowsy."

Bullshit. He slept 12 fucking hours. "Just something," he insists quietly.

"Okay," he relents. "Everything sounds gross right now."

Sam stays on the phone as Chuck goes through his whole pantry and fridge and finally decides a take-out container of leftover spaghetti doesn't look too gross.

Sam stays on the phone while Chuck eats.

Sam stays on the phone for every insignificant moment of whining and curling back up in bed and talking circles around the stuff they're not saying until Chuck starts to yawn and slur.

"I'm a mess," he says one more time, sad and quiet. "Why did you- I don't. Are. Will you come back around again someday?" he finally asks, small and sorry.

"I will if you want me to," he whispers back.

Chuck's so silent, Sam starts to wonder if he fell asleep. "I want you to. Whenever. I know you're busy. I know you have more important things to do."

He said Sam could come back as soon as he wanted. That's kind of the most important thing he can think of at the moment.

"I'll call. I'll let you know."

"Do we have to go now?" Chuck asks, probably too drowsy to even understand himself.

"You should hang up and put your phone away. I'll talk to you when you wake up again," he whispers.

"I'm sleepy," he says like that's remarkable.

"Yeah. You should-"

"Sam I'm such a fuck. I'm so trashy. I'm so sorry. I feel like styrofoam," he rambles.

"Chuck? You're not making any sense. Time to sleep."

"Okay. Alright fine. Come back to bed."

Sam laughs. "I'm here already."

"Go to sleep," Chuck demands.

"You first."

"'Kay." He hangs up and Sam laughs again.

«»

Chuck texts around ten. **So awake.**

Sam wants to hear him answer something out loud so he can tell if it's the truth. He calls.

"How do you feel?"

"Run over. I have heartburn. It's so gross. You made me eat at three in the goddamn morning. So gross," he gripes. Belches over the line.

"Chuck. Besides that? Do you feel better? Are you shaky?"

A sigh rattles out of him and he's suddenly very serious. "You don't have to do this, Sam. I'm fine. I did it to myself and it was dumb and I'm fine. I mean. I guess I know how to get back to sober on my own. I- I mean," he suddenly stutters, "not that- if you wanted. I mean. If you were thinking you might come back. I mean. That would be. But you don't have to hand-hold me through." He stops suddenly. "How. How are you?"

Sam tosses up a hand, shrugs. "I'm worried about you," he admits.

Chuck doesn't say anything.

"We're probably still a day away from wrapping up here," Sam admits.

"I'm in-" Chuck stops. "I think I might still have a fever."

"I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe watch tv. Eat something else?"

"Thank you. Just. Thanks for. Being you, Sam."

And he doesn't know what to make of that.

Pretty much just wants to say--  
Just wants to start asking dumb questions.

_I was going to assume you're bi; are you bi?_  
_Have you ever lived with someone?_  
_Would it be okay if I hung up and jerked off to the memory of your voice?_  
_Or would you maybe wanna wait until I see you again?_

"You don't have to keep checking in," Chuck finally says.

Sam swallows. "I really hope that's the last out you give me because I'm not actually planning to take any of them. As long as I'm allowed to call back-"

"Okay," Chuck cuts him off.

_Do you date?_  
_Do you really prefer the left side of the bed?_  
_Do you really normally sleep with clothes on?_  
_How many times can I call you before it sounds needy and lame?_

"Yes," Chuck says out of nowhere.

"What?"

"Sorry. Prophet stuff. It's like déjà vu sometimes. Like a glitch in the Matrix. You were about to ask if we're still friends and if you're still coming over and if you're still allowed to-- just yes. Yes to all. Just call before you come over. In case I'm not here to let you in, I might be at the store or something and I couldn't handle the Big Sad Face if you got all the way here and I didn't answer and you assumed I wasn't talking to you anymore and changed your numbers and ignored my emails and were just like, _Welp, I hope Chuck has a nice rest of his life_ , because I'll just call Cas and tattle on you. I have his number, now."

Sam blinks for a minute. "Big Sad Face. I don't know what you're talking about," he lies.

" _I don't know what you're talking about, he lied_ ," Chuck quotes him with fucking dialogue tags.

_Do you talk this much during sex? Because I really hope so._  
_Have you ever thought about settling down with someone?_  
_Is height a deal-breaker?_  
_Can you please just let me know the very first moment you're ready for me to fucking kiss you?_

"I'm ordering a sandwich. I think they deliver to my complex."

"Are we hanging up?"

"Not if I can order it online. Tell me about the case."

"If you've still got a fever, you should be resting."

"Oh GOD they deliver drinks, too. A minimum of four. I guess that means I'll have three coffees for later."

Sam smiles. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Do you really need to hang up?"

"Do they take online orders?"

"Yeah."

"So, okay. Cas sees this ad in the paper for a haunted apartment. Dean thinks he's heard of the place before and he remembers..."

«»

Chuck lets him touch him, now, which is nuts.

Because Sam's pretty sure he broke his heart and he comes back into town, now, again and again, and they hug and they sleep with their arms pressed and Chuck made him crouch and hold still in line at the bank so he could endorse the back of a paycheck on his shoulder.

Chuck lets Sam hug him before he leaves. He feels Chuck breathe under his hands and he thinks every time that, some day, maybe a few months down the road or something, he'll have the guts to press a kiss to Chuck's face and not laugh all nervous and try to let it go like a joke.

He cycles out every few days so this happens _every few days_ and he keeps falling into this hole thinking about it.

Maybe after he gets done with a bad case. Maybe Chuck will be here and be his quiet, sympathetic self, and Sam will be worn and bruised and able to kiss him softly at the threshold and say, _I just didn't think I was gonna see you again_. Maybe Chuck will let him do that.

There are free days when he can't spend any more time at the apartment. He starts to feel self-conscious about how lonely and desperate he is. Or he thinks about going for a run so he can take a second shower and masturbate again. Like, seriously.

There are cases. And days off. And things find a rhythm.

He could head back to the bunker today. He normally would. To prod Dean into a case and maybe steal a new car for himself since this one's been on the road a while now.

Sam keeps not wanting to go. They were in Texas a week ago and he couldn't tell-- well. He keeps telling himself he couldn't tell if Chuck was only making fun of him.

Chuck had said: "I miss you."

It was offhand and maybe not as big of a deal as he's making it. But, this time, when Sam showed up, Chuck let him hug him when he got here. When he got back. Not just because he was about to leave.

He's still got the going-away hug to look forward to. He's gonna ask Chuck. Maybe -- like maybe he'll ask right before he leaves, 'You gonna miss me?' and try to make it funny, but.

He's obsessed. It's not funny; he's quite simply hanging his every action on what happens within Chuck. Within the walls of this apartment. He doesn't want to go home today. He doesn't want distance. He wants to drive Chuck nuts until he asks what the hell is wrong with him and.

Sam gets out of bed and up to make the coffee.

He _has to_ leave today.

Can't make a nuisance of himself, just in case it wasn't a joke. Just in case Chuck really meant that he missed him.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

Absence sucks that way.

Chuck trails out eventually. Washes the brown mug that Sam got him. He's always so careful with it. He doesn't want it to break. Sam's actually considered cruising eBay for a backup just in case it bites dust.

Sam watches his back. Knows the worn-friendly-sleepy smell of the t-shirt he's wearing because he woke up with the bridge of his nose curved over Chuck's shoulder.

The tap cuts off.

Chuck turns and comes forward and.

Climbs up. And.  
Straddles his lap.

"Ch-"

Chuck fucking kisses him.

Chuck kisses him and it's mouthy and goes deep real fast and does. not. stop.

It doesn't stop, it's really happening, their mouths are hot and dry and he only tasted skin because he burnt his mouth a little on the coffee but Chuck tastes like the air in his room and Chuck is kissing him and not stopping.

Fuck.

He doesn't even have time to mess around. Has no self-restraint. He palms Chuck's ass and grabs him up tight and close and if he weren't about to break down and fucking weep he'd be getting so fucking hard right now.

'Cause Chuck just lets him do it. Chuck only stops for breath when he absolutely has to.

Chuck doesn't stop kissing him. He comes back in for more.

Sam doesn't want to know what he has to say when he does stop. He's so fuck-scared it's not gonna be what he's hoping for because this isn't just sexual tension and this isn't just friends. He's been in love before and it feels more towering every time. This dwarfs him. If he had more sense, he'd be scared of it instead of just what Chuck might-

"Don't go today. Don't go today," he breathes.

 _Chuck._ Oh, his fucking heart. Oh, his sweet fucking heart.

Of course. He only ever says what Sam needs to hear. Fucking _of course_.

Sam is gonna keep this forever. He was right. For once he was right. He found this and it's a perfect fit.

God. Chuck feels even more amazing this close. Tight to his hips and a new, comfortable weight on top of Sam.

Sam's just a fucking riot of claiming thoughts and want and _raw_ goddamn need. Mind scrambling for deeds to be done. Ways to earn this. Promises to make.

The stillness of Sunday morning beyond them. A world outside the apartment that has no idea what Chuck has just given to him. No idea that Sam just became the happiest, luckiest fucker on the planet. And so all that ultimately falls out of his mouth is, " _Please?_ "

He's got nothing else. Nothing better. No real things to offer and no idea how the hell he's really gonna earn this. He feels like he's starting off at zero, underground, basement-level. He just doesn't want this to end. He just wants Chuck to finally-finally-finally _bring him up_ and hold him and love him and-

Chuck palms his face, gentle and perfect, and only kisses him more. He lets Sam hold him here, keep him here. His fingers trail and Sam sways to lean into them.

He's so in love. He's _so_ in love. He wants this every morning of the rest of forever.

Someone who thinks he's _worth it_ is sitting on his lap touching him like he matters. Pled for him to stay. Dove in and kissed him, when Sam thought it would be asking a lot to even approach the subject in a few months' time.

Chuck tells him he saved the world. Chuck tells him he deserves friends. Chuck tells him he's _good_.

Sam's body wants to haul him to bed and fucking claim every inch of him.

Sam would like to sink into him and come until he's shooting literal blanks.

He breathes. Falls back and kisses down Chuck's jaw, knowing better.

More than anything?  
This should be done _right_.

"Let me make you breakfast," he swears he's gonna put at least something inside of this little body. He's gonna feed and protect him. Keep him healthy and whole. He's serious. There might be fucking _vitamins_ involved.

They end up making out on the couch, on-and-off, for hours. He gets up when Chuck has to find one of the games on tv and he brings back Pop-Tarts, then coffee. Presses the mug into Chuck's hands. Drags him back across to his own lap.

Sometimes Chuck just leans and breathes against him.

Sometimes he mutes the set and tosses the remote to the opposite end of the couch and Sam's mouth is already watering. Ready to be taken and eyes rolling back in his head at the feel of fingers in his hair. Dying to hear his name repeated and repeated with the certainty and constancy of punctuation.

He plants Chuck on the couch and keeps him there. Collects kisses as he walks by when he goes to refill their mugs; when he finally goes to get his chirruping phone.

Dean, of course. Things are still tense with Dean because Sam wants them to be.

This doesn't put Sam in a more generous mood. It makes him angry about the time he missed out on. Yes, he would have told Chuck eventually and things may have been weird for a while, but Sam almost missed out on this because of the way Dean handled it.

He gets his stuff to take a quick shower and calls Cas.

"Hey."

"Sam. You sound-"

Sam shuts himself inside the bathroom. "I won't be back this week," he jumps in.

Cas is silent down the line for a while. "Are you alright?"

Better than. "Yeah. Actually, yeah. Um-"

"You're staying with Chuck for a while."

"I just. I don't need Dean thinking-"

"He's prepared to give you all the space he can handle if you'll-"

"Chuck kissed me." Cas is his friend. He suddenly realizes that Cas is his friend and Cas will care.

He "hmms" a bit. "Did you want him to?"

"God, yes. I'm gonna fuck this up, right? I mean there's no way this-"

"You might want to take this week to _try_ before you deny yourself the enjoyment of someone's company. It isn't fair to Chuck or yourself to assume the worst. I know that, in your experience, it seems as if nothing ever goes well. But. You can allow yourself to hope. I've never known you not to try your best, Sam. I think you should trust yourself to work hard on something that overjoys you. It's hardly as if you'll allow it to just sit and develop on its own."

Sam laughs out a breath. "Are you saying I can't stop being a meddling little shit?"

Cas has a smile in his voice. "Not explicitly. It may be implied. You thought you were going to leave him alone. But you knew better. Don't convince yourself otherwise. Enjoy your week, Sam. I'll let your brother know you called."

"Thanks, Cas."

He blinks at his phone. Then he tosses it aside and takes a seriously fast shower.

He just started a new job. He wants to get back to work.

When he gets out, he only wears the towel. The bedroom door is open and he knows the room is visible from the couch, but he doesn't see Chuck out there when he glances back.

He might wanna do this slow and steady and make it _right_ , but he's definitely not gonna be able to walk away if Chuck doesn't want to wait. He's also not above playing chicken. (In fact, he'll flash the goods if it comes to it, like, _come on_.)

He smells fresh coffee being made.

By the time he's pulling his shirt on, Chuck is wandering in with both their mugs. He hands Sam's over as he's tossing his wet hair back.

"Thanks."

Chuck grins and comes up close and he doesn't stand on his toes. He just waits.

Sam smiles and comes down to him.  
Comes down to kiss him.

"You done in there?" he nods toward the door.

"Yeah. All you." But he takes their coffees and sets them on the bedside table. Because he just caught a glimpse below Chuck's collar and realized he left _marks_ right there, almost visible. Shit. _Shit_. He cups Chuck's head in his hands and runs down his neck, down his front, to his waist and pulls him in and drags his lips down Chuck's throat to cover the marks with his mouth. To taste him again before he's showered clean.

"Sam," his hands come up to Sam's front and one of them flattens, pressing. The other tangles in his shirt front so he stops but he doesn't go anywhere. "Kinda. I mean. It doesn't _hurt_ but-"

Fuck. He hadn't even thought- "Sorry. Shit. Sorry." He puts his hand over the little bites he left and soothes them with his thumb. "Fuck. I didn't ask. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

Chuck tugs on his shirt front. "Hey," he whispers. "Shhh. Stop. Come here."

Sam kisses an apology into his mouth.

Chuck accepts this while kind of... petting at Sam's chest. And up to his shoulders. And carding into his wet hair. He falls back a bit and lets Sam press him to the wall. "How are we?" he's still whispering. "Are we freaked out?" he seems genuinely concerned.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." And that could go for. Wow. A few things right now.

"It's not like 'ow' really painful. It's just." Chuck takes a breath. "Maybe ask next time. Maybe I'll get used to it," he shrugs, "but-"

"No. I can ask. I don't have to-- I wasn't thinking."

Chuck takes a big breath and lets it go with a huge smile. "Sam. Learning. Learning by doing. No pressure. Does it bother you when I--?" he sweeps Sam's hair back.

No, he definitely likes that part. "You can do that whenever you want."

"Okay. Piece by piece with me, alright? Doesn't all have to be- I mean. I know... you?? I know you. And. I know that doesn't make you comfortable, exactly. And I still." He stops. "I donno. I don't necessarily wanna have a full lecture series on this so just," he shrugs again and Sam knows he's supposed to kiss him.

He isn't ready to break it down and talk the whole thing out yet. And, okay, that's fine. If they're doing this piece by piece, they should get around to all of it. Over days and weeks, he can kiss him, learn him, and pull answers out of him. Negotiate their boundaries and talk. Sam can be patient for that, as long as he can _have_ this. He'll do anything to just end up _keeping_ this.

Until then? Sam would be happy to just make out, yeah.

Chuck takes his turn in the bathroom, only his fastest shower ever is like ten minutes long.

Sam's phone buzzes with a couple more texts from Dean. **Breaking pattern. I feel like ur trying to tell me somethin** and **Thanks for talking to Cas.**

Sam has no idea how much Cas might have said. He would be trying to construct messages back to Dean but. Well.

It's kind of the perfect opportunity, if he thinks about it.

While Chuck's naked. In the shower.

He could knock on the door. Chuck is right there. He could.

He could join him.

He could fuck him for the rest of the day. Lay him out and exhaust him. Suck him dry and open his ass with his tongue.

Or Sam could palm himself on the couch after three minutes and clean himself up again by the time Chuck gets out. Try to calm down.

Then draw Chuck back over and wait to make love when it's right. When Chuck's used to his touch and ready for him. When they've learned more about how to be to each other. Chuck hasn't even swept his hands down and all over yet. Sam's been handling him all day, pulling his legs over his own and hugging him close and taking Chuck's hands and drawing them back to his shoulders so he can tug him in and just hold him.

Maybe he needs to show Chuck how he likes to be touched.

Sam actually gets as far as the bathroom door. He drifts over and stands there for a full minute not knocking. Just licking his lips and thinking about it.

He goes back out to the main room and makes sure his hands are clean as soon as the water cuts off.

It comes closer, later. When they're kinda hot on touching each other and well-fed and rested, but buzzing in proximity to one another.

Chuck's pretty receptive to having Sam haul him into place. He shoves him onto the couch with a little more force than intended, still getting used to his weight and frame, and ends up getting on his hands and knees above Chuck so he isn't tempted to lay down on him and start grinding. But they keep making out from there and these dizzy words of amazement fall out of Chuck. Always saying his name. Saying "Hi" and "Wow, alright" and a lot of "do that one again."

Sam starts sinking down on him before he knows it and catches himself. Takes a breath and leans back up.

Chuck _whines_ and reaches to touch him wherever he can. Tries to draw him back down.

Yes. Sam will take more of _all_ of this noise, please and thank you. He loves this fucking noise.

He loves it.

He loves Chuck.

He has to remember not to say that part yet.

At least not on the first day.

«»

When he sat down on Sam and kissed him and whispered, Chuck didn't want him to go. So Sam makes sure he doesn't ask _when_ he should leave this time. His instinct is to feel like a burden and feel like he wears out his welcome. But he was asked to stay, so he's goddamn staying until Chuck says he should leave or something big comes up.

Chuck is fine with sleeping in his arms. It's been cold outside, lately, so maybe he's been lucky and Chuck just can't worm away from his admittedly unreasonable heat. After the first few days, he even figures out that there's a certain way he can hold Chuck and just make him drowsy and languid.

Chuck likes it. He likes being pawed at and having Sam hang close and that's too much. It's just so very much of a good thing that Chuck even notices Sam's disbelief, just from the feel of him, before he even hesitates aloud and asks if he's being too clingy.

He turns in Sam's loose hands, where he stands at the counter, and says, "When I don't like it, I promise I'll tell you," and pulls Sam's arms tighter around himself. "Okay?"

Sam hugs him tight for a moment until the toast pops up.

Then, when Chuck turns away, he's free to chase after, to catch up to him and keep hanging off of him.

Chuck doesn't think he's weird. It's okay.

"What about me?" Sam asks after breakfast. "You don't think I mind, right?" He suspects Chuck just isn't used to touching somebody else freely, but he wants him to. Chuck is naturally more careful than Sam is. He hasn't been grabbing for Sam at every opportunity. And... you know. Sam kind of wants him to.

Chuck dusts the food off his thumbs and takes Sam in skeptically. "Wait. Do I have free license to. Um. Like."

"Yes," Sam allows.

"Like I can. Just."

"Yes."

Chuck considers him still and keeps eating. Not quite disbelief but... more caution. Like he's formulating how he's gonna test this.

Of course, Sam didn't know he'd like that, too -- being looked up and down. Parts of him evaluated for where Chuck might want to grab him, hang on to him, hold him and keep him close. 

He's in need of groceries-- _they_ \-- they are in need of groceries. So they both get dressed and don't really mention it again. Until they're at the front entryway, bundling and about to leave for the first time since. Well.

They're going to try not to crack this fragile shell. See if they survive out in the real world where they used to just hang out as friends.

"Ready?" Sam asks, hand on the door. But Chuck stops him. Shakes his head.

He moves in front of Sam. Like really wedges between him and the door. He stands there.

Sam has learned that Chuck might reach up if he wants to be held or kissed, but he doesn't stretch up on his toes. He waits there like he's not sure he's doing this right.

Sam wants him to feel like he's doing this perfectly, because he is. So he reads the signs and he takes Chuck's face in his hands and smiles into kissing him.

Chuck's hands go to his hips. Go to his back. Go to his ass. And Sam's breath stutters and he's not smiling anymore, he's deadly fucking serious. He presses Chuck flat to the wall and touches him gently. Feels the sort of back-pocket slide of Chuck's hands turn into a grip on his ass.

He kisses away, round to Chuck's ear and says " _Yes_ " into it.

Just yes. Yes all the time.

Chuck's hands return up, under his shirt and to his lower back.

He closes his eyes and hugs Sam.

"Just. Sam. Are you totally sure? Are you _really fucking sure?_ "

He's asking because the world out there hasn't been exposed to them as a couple yet.

He's asking because he wants Sam to have one more choice. Another chance to back out and hold up and protect himself.

These are things Chuck wants for him.  
To live his own life based on what he wants and needs.

Sam wants.  
To be seen at the grocery store with him.

Because a week and a half ago they wandered, talking for an hour, as friends.

This week, he's going to hold his hand out to him when he grabs a cart. He's going to tell Chuck that this is how couples go buy deli meat and bread. He's gonna start Chuck on vitamins E, C, and A.

He's going to watch Chuck choose him back.  
Again.

"Yes. Ready to go?"


End file.
